The Affair
by allthingsdecent
Summary: Set in S8, House and Cuddy are regularly hooking up in a hotel room. But is that enough for House?
1. Chapter 1

**Here is a Season 8 story that might remind some of you of 87 Letters—at first, at least. But I deviate pretty far off track from there. Anyway, for the purposes of this story, Wilson lives. Hooray!**

**Also, if you like this, thank the Mighty Z and survivachick. Because I was going to trash it and they encouraged me to post.- atd**

It was one of those nights when the universe seemed to be conspiring against her. Her budget meeting had gone late and then she hit every red light along the way and got stuck behind one of those annoying, white-knuckle drivers and by the time Cuddy got to the Hoboken Hilton, she was a bit stressed out and a little sweaty and she practically sprinted through the lobby to the elevator, not even caring how insane she probably looked.

"Your husband's already up there waiting for you, Mrs. Gardiner," the bellhop trilled, amused, as he watched her frantically pressing the button for the elevator. Finally, the damn door opened and she hit the button for 12th floor.

The "Do Not Disturb" sign was already up, but she knew to ignore it. It was a preview of what was about to come. Not what was happening now but what _would _be happening, hopefully, very soon.

She knocked.

He opened the door, naked under an half-open terry cloth robe, his hair still damp from the shower. She got a little excited, just looking at him.

"I'm sorry I'm—"

But before she had finished the thought, he grabbed her, pushed her up against the wall, ardently kissing her, his hands riding up her skirt. The transition from being in traffic, listening to Muzak in the elevator to having his hands, his naked body, roughly pressed against her was almost too much—she felt like she could orgasm just from the feel of his hands squeezing her breasts, his tongue curling in her ear. She followed in kind, wrapping her legs around him, biting him, mashing her mouth against his. There was something wild, unfettered about their sex—she came quickly, unable to hold back, even if she wanted to, and he was right behind her.

She was still dressed, although her blouse had been unbuttoned, her bra artlessly shoved aside and her skirt pushed up to her waist. He was completely naked.

"Well hello to you too," she said, ironically, sliding down the wall.

"I'm not good with waiting. I guess I got a little…excited," he admitted.

She closed her eyes.

"I liked it," she said, luxuriously. "I feel spent. In a good way."

"Hopefully not too spent," he said, raising his eyebrows. "The night is young."

"House, are you ever going to start acting your age?"

"Oh God, I hope not."

#####

So this is how Cuddy came to be "Mrs. Gardiner" meeting House for sex and room service at the Hoboken Hilton once a week.

It had started with letters, dozens of them.

At first they came almost every day, and then, eventually, once a week. Surely, he knew there was a possibility she hadn't read them, perhaps had even thrown them away. In the courtroom when the lawyer said, "Can you identify the man who drove his car through your living room?" she had angrily pointed at House and they had locked eyes for a moment and her expression meant to convey, "I will never forgive you for this." He had bowed his head while being taken away in handcuffs and she had moved to Hoboken and tried to rebuild her life.

And yet, the letters came. And came. And came. She assumed they would stop. That he would give up, see the whole thing as an exercise in futility. Of course, she shouldn't have been that surprised. House may have had zero patience but he was also the most intrepid, relentless man she knew when he really wanted something. Still, 172 unanswered letters was enough of a message. He should've given up. But he didn't.

And it turned out, letter 173 was the one that did the trick. It was the letter that finally wore her down. She opened it.

"I keep hearing this high-pitched yelp coming from Mrs. Morgenthaler's on the 5th floor. So either she's keeping some sort exotic pet in her apartment, or she's a lot kinkier than she looks. (Then again, those sensible shoes don't exactly scream: They call me Mistress of Pain after dark.) Okay, off to bleach my brain because I now have THAT image stuck in my head. Talk soon.– H"

Despite herself, Cuddy laughed. Randomly, she picked another letter out of the pile.

"Saw a little girl at the hospital today who reminded me of R. You know how R used to march around the house like she was a drum majorette leading an imaginary marching band? Does she still do that? Probably not . . . Anyway, this kid was doing the same thing so I gave her a lollypop when her mom wasn't looking. Talk soon.- H."

Cuddy hadn't thought about Rachel marching through the house like that in a while. She smiled. Went further back in the pile, to one of the earlier letters.

"The worst thing about prison—well, aside from the cardboard food, the constant fear of getting my ass kicked by some goon with an "I Heart Adolf" tattoo, and the fact that I'm, well, IN PRISON—is that I have lots of time to think. Me alone with my thoughts right now is not a happy place to be. I have a solar system of regret. Cuddy, I can never say I'm sorry enough. – H."

The early letters were all like that, apologies, self-flagellation, but eventually he gave up and just started telling her about his day—first in prison, then back at the hospital. In among the letters were two birthday cards for Rachel, and one for her—her next birthday was actually coming up in a few weeks. Then she found one letter, dated a few weeks back, that had a check in it for $100,000.

"I'm told this is the cost of rebuilding a dining room. Not sure what the cost of rebuilding a friendship is. Something tells me there isn't enough money in the world . . .- H"

She stared at the letter for a few minutes, then picked up the phone.

"I'm not cashing it," she said when he answered.

"Cuddy?" he choked out. She had changed her number so he was completely taken off guard. There was a rustling sound as he seemed to drop the phone, then catch it. Cuddy found it ever so slightly gratifying, to hear him get flustered like that.

"Yes, it's me. I'm not cashing that check."

"You read my letters," he said.

"Yes," she said, quietly. "Well, saved them at least. I didn't actually read them—until today."

"You really should cash the check."

"I don't want or need your money, House."

"I know you don't. But it'll make me feel better if you cash it."

"And assuage your guilt?"

"Not even close. A raindrop in the sea of my guilt. But it's a start."

"I'm under no obligation to make you feel even slightly better about yourself."

"It's too late. You read my letters. You called."

"I could hang up, right now."

"Please! Don't!" he blurted out. Then, more quietly: "Please don't."

Cuddy sighed, but didn't hang up.

"Hi," he said, sweetly.

She smiled, to herself.

"Hi House. I'd ask how are you, but I already know. I think I know more about your life now than I did when we were dating."

"You try writing one-sided letters! I started feeling like I was talking to myself. Or at least a raging narcissist."

"You? A narcissist?"

He laughed.

"Touché." Then, after a pause: "How's life?"

She snorted.

"Can you be more specific?"

"The new job?"

"Fine."

"Rachel?"

"Good."

"Your new house?"

"Nice."

"Wow. I remember you using a lot more syllables back when we were dating."

"I'm still not sure I want to be having this conversation."

"But we are. And for that, I'm truly thankful."

"Don't get carried away. We're just talking about a check. That I've already ripped up."

"I'll send you another one."

"I don't need your blood money."

"Blood money, huh? Someone has been watching too many gangster films."

She giggled a bit, despite herself.

"Shut up House."

"It's good to hear you laugh."

"I should…go."

"Can I call you?"

"I don't think that's a good idea."

"Can I keep writing?"

"I can't stop you."

"And…will you call me again?"

"I don't know. Maybe. But don't hold your breath."

"Too late. It's already held. You should probably preemptively call 911."  
>######<p>

She didn't call him again but she did write him once.

This time, he had sent her a birthday card with a gift. It was a beautiful necklace, delicate, simple—and vaguely familiar. Then she saw the note: "I seem to recall you lost a necklace like this back at Michigan." Holy shit! How had he remembered? She had almost forgotten. The necklace had been a good luck charm/going away present from her grandparents. It had a little anchor on it, meant to represent the stability of family. She had lost it at a huge, rowdy house party. She had been inconsolable.

So she pulled out a piece of stationery and wrote: "Thank you for my birthday present. I loved it." Then she decided "love" was too strong a word. She threw out the card and got another: "Thank you for my birthday present. It meant a lot." Then she decided "It meant a lot" might give him the wrong impression. Finally she settled upon, "Thank you for my birthday present"—and left it at that. She sent it.

But after that, she found herself looking forward to House's letters more and more. On more than one occasion, she considered calling him.

It was unnecessary. Fate intervened in the form of a medical conference that they both attended, in Arlington.

She saw his name in the conference brochure, avoided the seminars he was most likely to attend, but made the mistake—that later, upon reflection, she realized was more like a subconscious choice— of blowing off an awards banquet in favor of drinks and dinner at the bar. She'd already polished off a turkey burger and was on her second martini, when House came in, looking a bit abashed to see her. He stood in the entranceway, make darting eye contact with her, then gave a tiny shrug and started to leave.

"You don't have to run away, House," she said after him.

"No?"

"You've written me 200 letters."

"191, actually," he replied, sitting next to her eagerly.

"You sent me a check for $100,000."

"Which you ripped up…"

"You got me this necklace." She pulled back her collar to reveal the necklace.

He blinked.

"It looks good on you," he said.

"Thank you."

"Then again, a burlap sack would look good on you," he added.

She gave a little laugh.

He looked pretty good himself: A few more lines in his face, a little less hair in that one bald spot he was always denying existed—but as blindingly handsome as ever.

"So here we are," she said.

"Here we are," he said, studying her. He gestured for the bartender and ordered a scotch.

"Are you, uh, enjoying the conference?" Cuddy said.

"I don't want to talk about the conference," he said.

"What do you want to talk about?"

"How much I've missed you."

"House. . ." she scolded.

"Okay, let's talk about the conference," he said, all business. "Did you catch that lecture on Mydocardial Infarcation? Riveting stuff. I thought the second act lagged a bit, but by the end, there wasn't a dry eye in the house. Those might've been tears of boredom, though."

"I've missed you too, House," she said, looking down.

"So does this mean we can finally be. . ."

"Cordial to each other," Cuddy said.

"I'm pretty sure cordial is just to the left of 'not talking to each other.'"

"Exactly," Cuddy said. "Baby steps."

But the more they drank, they more they talked, the more they laughed, it was clear they had moved way beyond cordial.

Cuddy did most of the talking—after all, the letters had given her a rather thorough debriefing of House's life to date.

So she talked about her new job, her life in Hoboken with Rachel. He was mostly interested in the Rachel stuff, peppering her with questions about Rachel's friends, her favorite TV shows (he nodded approvingly when Cuddy mentioned _The Simpsons_), what she liked to eat and learn at school.

And she liked talking to him. She had forgotten how heady an experience it was when he focused all his attention on you.

As the evening went on, they found themselves touching more and more—in tiny ways: shoulders brushing against each other, a hand tapped for emphasis. By the time the bartender told them it was closing time—they looked around, surprised to discover they were the only ones left—they were sitting close enough to kiss.

They both stood up, sheepishly.

"I'm so glad we…" House said.

"Me too, House," she said.

Awkwardly, he went to shake her hand, but she caught him in a hug. He gripped her tightly, meaningfully, until she let go.

"That was extremely. . . cordial," he said, smiling.

"That's me," she said, with a shrug. "The cordialest."

His mouth twitched with a tiny, adoring smile.

They walked to the elevator together. He was on the 16th floor. She was on the 12th.

As the elevator ascended, she was having unbidden fantasies of grabbing him, kissing him, slamming him against the elevator wall.

And then she saw his face, slightly red: He was clearly having similar thoughts.

When the door opened on her floor, he gave her a longing look.

"Good night, House," she said, firmly.

He nodded, in a resigned sort of way.

"Good night, Cuddy," he said, as the door closed on his disappointed face.

#####

Cuddy had had sex with four different men since she broke up with House.

There had been Shaun, the studly, 27-year-old contractor who she had hired to refinish the hardwood floors of her new house.

There was Tony, a handsome—but too slick for her taste—lawyer she had met through mutual friends.

There was Ron, a sensitive ex boyfriend she had bumped into a book reading.

And there was Benjamin, a pediatric oncologist at New Jersey General, where she now worked. He had asked her out a few weeks after she started as VP of Administration. ("Would you ever consider dating a colleague?" he asked. _You have no idea_, she had thought.) They had dated for six months and parted as friends.

In each case, the sex had been satisfying, in its own way. Cuddy liked sex and she wasn't afraid to indulge in it. But it was nothing like her sex life with House. In many ways, she was her best self around House: She felt smarter, wittier, sexier, for sure. But also, more orgasmic. It was like his body was specifically calibrated to turn her on.

So she found herself lying in that giant, useless king-sized bed at the Arlington Hilton, touching herself, thinking of him and she finally thought, _fuck it_. The real thing is four floors away.

"Gregory House's room," she said to the front desk.

At hotels they were taught not to ask questions. So even though it was 2 am, she was connected to his room. He answered right away.

"Are you asleep?" she asked.

"Are you kidding?"

"Room 1207," she said. And hung up.

When she answered the door, she could tell that it was taking Herculean self-control for him not to immediately dive for her. He was already a little out of breath; he licked his lips, unconsciously.

"Come here," she said. And then he did dive for her, burying his face between her breasts.

Sex with House had always been a little taboo. He was the bad boy student at Michigan, then her bad boy employee. She was the good girl, the rule follower. The sense of transgression, she supposed, just added to the turn on. But this was different.

She was having sex with a man she had vowed to hate for life, to never forgive. And his tongue was lapping between her legs and she was arching her back and grabbing fistfuls of blanket and . . ._my God_. If this was wrong, she didn't want to be right.

"Thank you," he had whispered into her neck, after they'd had sex twice.

She knew she was the one who should've been thanking him for making her feel that good. Instead, she said, "You're welcome."

He pulled her toward him.

"I can't tell you how hap—"

"You should go," she said, quickly. She was already coming out of the fog of orgasm, regretting her behavior.

"Oh," he said, hurt, letting go. "Okay."

He got out of bed, fumbled for his clothing and his cane in the dark.

"So this is it?" he said, once he was dressed.

"I never said that."

"You're kicking me out at 3:30 in the morning," he said. "I don't feel especially welcome."

"What did you expect House?" she said, turning on the light on the nightstand and looking at him. "That we would cuddle all night? Have breakfast in bed together?"

"Something like that," he muttered, under his breath.

"Look, I'm confused, okay?" she said. "I need some time to process what just…happened."

"There's nothing to be confused about. I love you. I never stopped loving you."

"But I stopped loving you," she said.

He shoved his hands in his pockets.

"No," he said stubbornly. "You didn't. You wish you did. You wish you didn't love me. But you can't help it."

He was throwing her own words back in her face; an annoying habit from a man who remembered everything.

"You don't know a thing about how I feel."

"You called me at 2 in the morning!"

"For sex. Sex isn't love, House."

"For us it is."

She closed her eyes.

"Go back to your room House."

His posture changed: from defiant to desperate.

"Will you call me when you get back to New Jersey?" he said. "_Please_."

"I honestly don't know."

#####

But House was right. Cuddy found herself fantasizing about him in board meetings, touching herself under the covers in bed, recreating every moment of their lovemaking over and over again.

A week after she got back from Arlington, she called him, "Can you be in Hoboken tonight?"

"Yes," he said quickly.

"Hoboken Hilton. Room 1207."

It went on like this for months. Sex, followed by regret, followed by kicking him out, insisting she'd never see him again. Then, a week later, there was always another phone call, another hastily arranged rendezvous.

Finally, at one point, House said, "Can we stop pretending we're not having an affair?"

He was sitting up in bed, wearing just boxers. His hair was messy because she had just messed it and he looked sated and sleepy but in a happy sort of way.

"I guess we are," she admitted.

"_Finally_," he said. "So when can I take you out? Come to the house? See Rachel?"

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," she said. "I said affair. Not dating. This is sex. Nothing more."

He rolled his eyes.

"_Really_?" he said.

"Really," she said, firmly.

He sighed.

"But I want all of you. Not just sex."

"This is as much of me as I can give right now. " Then she looked at him out of the corner of her eye. "And you can't tell anyone—not even Wilson."

He folded his arms.

"I haven't told anyone," he mumbled.

"Good."

"If we're sneaking around, we might consider using an alias," he said, with a slightly bitter edge to his voice. "You're an important woman in this town. People…talk."

"You're right," she said, biting a nail. "Any ideas?"

"Hey, you're the one making all the rules."

"Mr. and Mrs. Darcy?" she said, wrinkling her nose.

"Really? Like Pride and Prejudice Darcy? Probably the second most overused alias, after Smith. And don't suggest Mr. and Mrs. Heathcliff either."

"You're right. How about…Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner."

"As in Chauncey Gardiner? From _Being There_?" he asked, impressed.

"As in Hubbell Gardiner, from _The Way We Were_," she replied.

He shook his head. "Of course."

"Hey, that's a great movie!"

"I'm sure it is."

"You've never seen it?"

"I'm _a dude_—in case you'd forgotten."

She raised her eyebrows dirtily.

"Oh, I haven't forgotten," she said.

Then she got up out of bed, wrapped in a sheet, much to his dismay, and opened the TV cabinet. "They have a DVD player. I'm bringing the movie next week."

_Next week_.

_To be continued…_


	2. Chapter 2

"Are you _crying_?" House teased.

They were sitting side-by-side in bed, propped up against the headboard, sharing a bowl of microwave popcorn, as the _The Way We Were_ credits started to roll.

Cuddy wiped her eyes.

"You're _not_?" she sniffed, incredulously.

"Why on earth would I be crying?"

"Because it's so sad. They were so in love, but it just wasn't meant to be."

"Give me a fucking break. Hubbell was a pussy. If he really loved Katie, he would've fought for her."

Cuddy smiled, amused that House had such strong feelings on the matter.

"Not everyone can be quite as persistent as you, House."

He made a face.

"Then that's their problem."

She gave a coy little smile.

"So, did you at least like the movie?"

"I've seen worse. Like _Yentl_."

She swatted him.

"Do you think Barbra Streisand is pretty?"

He shrugged.

"She's okay. Better than that Stepford Wife Hubbell ended up with. But I'm partial to a different Jewess." He pulled her toward him.

"And you are my very own Gorgeous Goyishe Guy," she giggled, quoting a line from the film.

"L'chaim," he said, kissing her.

#####

Their affair, such as it was, had been going on for four months. Sometimes she came to the hotel, they had sex, and she left. Sometimes she stayed longer—room service, sex, card games, more sex. On rare special occasions, she spent the night. Those were House's favorites, but he tried to play it cool.

On one such night, she woke to House writhing in the bed, racked by a horrific nightmare. "No!" he kept saying. "No, no, _please_!"

When they were dating, he used to have nightmares all the time—horrible, thrashing nightmares that scared her—but eventually they had subsided until they disappeared completely. She wasn't totally surprised they were back, though. He'd had a rough couple of years.

"Hey," she said, grabbing his arm, trying to steady him. "Shhh, House, wake up, You're just having a bad dream."

He jerked around one more time, then his eyes opened, terrified.

"There was so much blood," he said, still stunned, not quite awake. "I didn't mean it."

She cradled him in her arms, just like she used to, murmuring in his ear, "It's okay, House. You didn't hurt anybody. I'm right here . . .I'm right here"—until he fell back asleep.

####

House had invented a game called strip chess. Every time you "checked' somebody, they had to remove an item of clothing. "Checkmate" and they had to get fully naked.

They had been playing for 20 minutes, and Cuddy was down to a bra, stiletto heels, and panties.

House still hadn't removed a stitch of clothing.

"What kind of idiot agrees to play strip chess with a genius?" Cuddy said, almost to herself.

"My favorite kind," House replied, with a grin.

"Shut up!"

Then he slid his knight to an open square. "Check! Kindly remove your bra please!"

She looked down at the board, skeptically.

"Wait a second! You could've had checkmate if you'd moved your queen instead of your knight."

"True, but I prefer delay of gratification. It's only a matter of time, my pretty. Now…that bra?"

She raised her eyebrows, slowly removed her bra, threw it at his face.

She moved her bishop, and then, with a devious smile, licked her thumb and methodically began circling her nipples.

House watched her, his tongue practically hanging out of his mouth.

"Your move, stud," she said with a smirk, squeezing her boobs together and leaning toward him.

"That's…not fair," he sputtered.

She looked down at his pants.

"Looks like all your blood has suddenly rushed to the wrong organ, pal."

"Forget the game," House said, going to grab her. "It's dumb."

She squirmed away.

"No! Those aren't the rules! It's your move!" she giggled.

House rolled his eyes.

"Oh, alright," he said, vaguely moving a pawn across the board, without taking his eyes off of her.

She stopped her performance and looked down at the board with a triumphant grin.

"Bad move, House. Checkmate. You lose! Now strip!"

"You are such a little minx" he said, eagerly beginning to yank off his shirt and wriggle out of his pants.

"Stand up!" she commanded. "And take your time. You're not the only one who likes delay of gratification."

######

A week later, they were having sex; Cuddy was on top, riding him, so he could view her in all her glory, when he said, in a dreamy sort of way, "God, I love you."

She stopped undulating, then rolled off him quickly, shooting him a dirty look.

"No!" she said.

His mouth dropped open.

"What?"

"You do not get to say that. You'll ruin everything!"

"Christ, I didn't meant it. It just slipped out."

"Well, keep it _in_!"

"It's not exactly a newsflash that I'm in love with you," he said, sulkily, pulling the sheet up to almost his neck.

"That's not what this is about," she said. "This is about two consenting adults enjoying each other's bodies. Remember? We had an arrangement! Sex, not love."

"That's bullshit Cuddy and we both know it."

"No, it isn't."

"You rocked me to sleep when I had a nightmare!"

"That doesn't mean anything."

"You moan my name when we have sex!"

"You're a good lover. That doesn't mean I'm in love with you."

"I think it does."

"Well, you're wrong."

"Says who?"

"Says me."

"And you get to make all the rules, all the time? Is that how this works?"

"Yes!" she said.

He looked at her, his eyes flashing.

"Forget it" he said, getting out of bed and hastily beginning to get dressed. "I'm outta here. I'm done."

She suddenly felt her heart thumping in her chest.

"Oh come on, House. Don't be a baby."

"I have to go. I have an early consult in the morning," he lied.

"You haven't done a consult in 15 years," she said, studying him.

"Turns out, people do change," he said. Then, under his breath: "Obviously."

"Rachel is staying with my mother. We have the whole night," she said, patting the bed next to her. "Come back."

"No," he said huffily.

"You're just going to leave me here all alone in this big hotel bed, all by myself?" Her voice was kittenish. She stretched, seductively.

He refused to look at her.

"Yes!" he said.

Her face turned red.

"Okay fine! Then go."

"I am!"

There was a tiny hesitation, a standoff of sorts, as both waited for the other to cave—but neither did.

House grabbed his duffel bag and left.

#####

Despite his dramatic exit, it was still Cuddy who held all the cards in the relationship. House loved her so much, wanted whatever she was willing to give him. So five days later, he called her.

"I'm sorry," he said, chastened.

She felt relieved beyond measure, but she couldn't let on.

"I know you are."

"I behaved like an ass. I shouldn't have just stormed out like that."

"Things are…complicated between us—I know that," she said. "And it's partly my fault."

"No, it's all my fault. You made the terms clear. I broke my end of the bargain. Can you forgive me?"

"Of course. Can you forgive me?"

"There's nothing to forgive. Well, other than the fact you left me with a serious case of blue balls. You can't do that to a guy!"

"Oops. Sorry about that," she chuckled. "Perhaps I can make it up to you?"

"So we're on for Friday night then?" he said, hopefully.

"Hey, you're the one who walked out on me, remember?"

"I promise, it'll never happen again. Only an idiot leaves a woman like you alone in a bed."

"Then I'll see you at 8 o clock."

He exhaled a bit. "Can't wait."

But after that, something did change—albeit ever so slightly. It became harder and harder for Cuddy to lie to herself about her feelings. Because she knew that House was right. That she had been in denial, pretending the thing between them was sexy and lighthearted and nothing more. To acknowledge the truth, that she loved him, that she had never stopped loving him, was simply too painful. It was admitting, on some very fundamental level, that she had no self control. She had tried her hardest to stop loving Gregory House, and she had failed, spectacularly.

####

After that, their arrangement started fraying around the edges.

Cuddy mentioned that she and Rachel were planning on seeing the new Pixar movie together.

"I'd love to go with you guys," House had said.

"I'd love that, too, House. But you can't."

"I'm not fishing for an invitation," he said, mopily. "I'm just saying I wish I could."

"I know," she said. "Me too."

One night, after midnight, on a Wednesday, he called her. "I miss you," he said.

"It's just two more days," she replied.

"I know but I want to see you right now."

"I do, too," she said. "But we have to wait."

"It's hard," he said, adding: "And I mean that, literally _and_ figuratively."

She gave a tiny laugh.

"Go to sleep, House."

Then, a few weeks later, they were sitting in bed, still wearing fluffy terry cloth robes after having bathed together, when she accidentally let slip that she had bought a new dress for the New Jersey General gala.

"A gala?" he said, furrowing his brow.

_Shit_.

She tried to keep her voice casual: "Yeah, just this fundraising thing they do every year. Big band. Open bar. Drunk internists. That sort of thing."

"And you're going …alone?"

_Shit, shit, shit_.

"I'm going with the hospital's Director of Finance. Not a date. Just as friends."

"But he's single?"

She fiddled with the rope tie of her robe.

"Divorced."

"And you'll…what? Sit at a table together? Share a few laughs? Dance together?"

"Something like that. . ."

"So it's a date!"

"I said it wasn't."

"Does _he_ know that?"

"I'm sure he does, House."

He folded his arms.

"I don't like it."

"It's not your call."

"You've been fucking me for six months. I don't have any say on whether or not you go to parties with some other guy?"

"House, you've got to trust me."

"It's hard to trust you when you've made it so perfectly clear that I mean absolutely nothing to you."

She took his hand.

"Don't say that. You know that's not true."

"How can I possibly know that?"

"We've been together for six months and I haven't gone on a single date. I haven't so much as looked at another guy."

"You want a medal?"

"My sister and my mother keep trying to set me up with eligible men! Do you know how hard it's been to put them off?"

"Then tell them the truth! Tell them you're with me!"

"Oh, that'll go over really well."

His eyes widened.

"Then at least tell _me_ that you're with me."

She inhaled.

"I'm with you House," she said.

He sighed. His shoulders slumped a bit.

"Thank you," he said.

She went to him, sat in his lap, kissed his eyelids, which were wet with tears.

"I love you," she said. "I'm so sorry it's taken me so long to say it."

"It's okay," he said, kissing her on the mouth. "I was playing the long game."

"Your new special skill."

"Only as it applies to you," he said.

They kissed again.

"So now what?" House said.

"What do you mean?"

"When do we get out of this godforsaken hotel room and into the real world?"

Cuddy swallowed.

"I need more time."

"It's been six months!"

"And I just acknowledged that I love you. The next step is. . .telling my family and friends. Telling Rachel."

"Rachel loves me."

"I know she does, House. But I also have to explain to her that you did a terrible thing. But you went to jail and you apologized and sometimes, when we really love somebody, it's important to forgive them."

"And Arlene and Julia will understand that too," he said, half-heartedly.

She shot him a look.

"Are you kidding?"

He allowed himself a small laugh.

"Okay, maybe not."

"Just give me time, House. I love you. You're the only man for me. I think we both know that now. I just need to figure out a strategy for. . . reinserting you into my life."

"I can live with that," he said, untying the knot to her robe and gently parting her legs. "Let's see what else I can reinsert myself into."

####

The following Friday, Cuddy was driving to the Hoboken Hilton and in an extremely good mood. Ever since she had told House she loved him, it was like a weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She felt lighter, freer, almost giddy. She hadn't realized how heavy the denial—the lie she was telling herself over and over—was weighing on her.

She had talked to House several times on the phone this week and, for the first time, they had dared to discuss the future.

"I can move to Hoboken," House had said. "Or we can all move to Manhattan. Get a place in Gramercy Park."

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves House. I haven't even figured out way to tell my mother. I'm…petrified."

"We'll figure out something together," he said. "Okay?"

"Okay," she said. And something about her and House, united, acting as a team, heartened her.

So she was driving, quickly, eager to be in her lover's arms again. She was in such a good mood, she didn't notice the car driving erratically behind her, and she barely saw it coming when that car lost control, spun around, and collided with her, head on.

_To be continued…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks to Frenchie for the beta read.**

If you had told House ten years ago, that he'd be having regular, no-strings-attached sex with a beautiful woman in a hotel room and that he'd be _unhappy_ with that arrangement, he'd have told you to get your head examined (but not by him—brain tumors were boring). But that was what Lisa Cuddy did to him. She had messed with his head, permanently, turned him inside out. He was now the kind of guy who actually liked the cuddling part as much as the sex. As he saw it, sex was a basic human need—as vital as eating, sleeping, and shitting. Cuddling was something you did by _choice_.

So every time Cuddy spent the night, every time she folded herself into his arms and they watched a movie together, every time she playfully swatted him for being a wiseass, it felt like a declaration of love. And every time she left the hotel room, fastening an earring and hopping on one foot as she put on her shoes, saying, "Same time next week?" with a flirty little grin—a little part of him died. He didn't want to see her next week. He wanted to see her later today. And the day after that. And the day after that….

But last week, finally, his patience had paid off: "I love you," she said and his heart almost burst.

He was almost where he wanted to be. That is, if he could just get out of this damned hotel room.

Still, even the hotel room took on a whole new feeling tonight. It no longer felt salacious, like he was Cuddy's shameful little secret. It felt like the beginning of something real.

If only she would show up.

House looked at his watch. 8:20. He was getting antsy.

He flipped on the TV, tried to focus on a Mets game, got bored.

He raided the mini bar, poured himself a beer.

Finally, he called her, left a message: "Is this any way to treat a man you are madly in love with? Okay, I embellished the _madly_ part, but I sensed that's what you meant."

He smiled, hung up. Then drummed his fingers on the night table, took a few more swigs of his beer.

He called the front desk.

"Did Dr. Cu—uh, Mrs. Gardiner—call and leave me any messages?"

"No Mr. Gardiner," the hotel clerk said. "No messages."

"Okay, thanks."

He waited 20 minutes, then called Cuddy again.

"It's customary to call when you're going to be really, _annoyingly_ late, you know," he said. Then added, "Call me."

By 9:30, he started to freak out.

She clearly had changed her mind. She was having second thoughts about everything. Of course she didn't love him. What the hell was he thinking? She had briefly, in a post-coital state, confused sex with love and now she had come to her senses and remembered what a horrible excuse for a human being he was. He was kidding himself. They would never be together again. He was a fool.

He called her again, "Okay, I get that you don't want to see me anymore, Cuddy. I'm a big boy. I can handle it. But don't just leave me hanging here in a fucking hotel room. Have the decency to call me. . . _Please_."

Half an hour later he called again: "You know, this is a bitch move, even for you, Cuddy! Even if you regret telling me that you love me, it's not like you to…"

And suddenly, a chill went down his spine. In fact, it _wasn't_ like her to leave him alone in a hotel room. Something was wrong. He was suddenly overcome with dread.

The first thing he did was call her house.

A woman with a slight Spanish accent answered.

"Is Dr. Cuddy there?" he asked.

"No. Dr. Cuddy is not here right now. This is her nanny. Should I take a message?"

"Um, no."

Then, he inhaled a bit and called New Jersey General, asked to speak to Dr. Cuddy's office.

But of course, when they connected him, it went to a voicemail—not even her voicemail, the blandly professional voicemail of her assistant. ("You have reached the office of Vice President of Administration, Lisa Cuddy. . .")

So he called back, asked to speak to the head nurse on duty. When she answered, he said: "Hi, this is, uh, Eric Taub, with New Leaf Insurance. I was supposed to meet Dr. Cuddy hours ago and she never showed up. Do you happen to have a home phone number for her?"

There was a pause—an endless fucking pause.

"Mr. Taub, I'm so sorry. Dr. Cuddy won't be able to meet you tonight. There's been an accident."

He felt his mouth go dry.

"Like, some sort of hospital emergency that Dr. Cuddy has to attend to?" he said, hoping against hope.

"No, Dr. Cuddy was in a car accident. They brought her into the emergency room about three hours ago. She's still in surgery."

House tried to keep his hand steady, but it was starting to shake.

"Thank you," he managed say. He hung up, got dressed, and drove to the hospital.

#####

The clerk at the ER desk said she was still in surgery.

"Is she going to be okay?"

"She's getting the best possible care," he said.

"I didn't ask if she was getting the best possible care. I asked if she was going to be okay!"

"I don't know sir, but if you could just take a seat in the waiting room, I'm sure a doctor will be out shortly to update you on her condition."

For some reason, it didn't occur to him that other people would've figured this out by now. That there would be phone calls made—a whole network of Cuddy supporters, called into action.

But when he got to the waiting room, there was Arlene Cuddy and Julia Cuddy, plus Julia's husband David, plus two pretty, fit women who were probably her new yoga friends, plus none other than Dr. James Wilson.

He gaped at them and they gaped right back.

"What the fuck is he doing here?" Arlene said.

"Is she going to be okay?" House said.

"Get the hell out of my sister's hospital," Julia said.

"IS SHE GOING TO BE OKAY?" House repeated, his voice rising.

"House, no one knows anything yet," Wilson said calmly, standing up, grabbing House's arm. "She's still in surgery."

House shook him off.

"Don't touch me!" he hissed.

"James, get him out of here!" Julia said.

"I have as much a right to be here as you do!" House said.

"No you don't, you bastard. My sister loathes you. She fears you. She never wants to see you again."

"Is this the crazy ex?" one of the friends said.

"Yes, this is the maniac who drove his car into my sister's house."

"How'd he even know about the accident?" the other friend said.

For a second, House was going to say: "Because she didn't show up in the hotel room, where we've been meeting for passionate sex for the last six months," but he knew Cuddy wouldn't approve. Instead he muttered, "I have my sources."

"He's like a roach," Julia said, with disdain. "He gets into all the corners of your life and you can't kill him."

"I'll just sit over there," House said, gesturing to a chair on the opposite side of the waiting room. "Nobody has to talk to me or even acknowledge my existence. I'll just sit there in total silence."

"Why is he here?" Arlene said, suddenly bursting into tears. House couldn't tell if it was an act or not. "Why is this horrible man here when my baby is fighting for her life?"

"House, you're upsetting my mother," Julia said. "Please leave."

She shot David a "you're totally useless look" and he stood up and said, "Let's not let this get ugly"—not necessarily because he wanted to kick House out, but because it seemed the thing to do.

"Come on, House," Wilson said coaxingly, trying to guide House to the exit.

House looked around the room, realizing the situation was hopeless.

"Fine," he said, letting Wilson lead him out.

They bumped right into a handsome guy, mid-40s, aftershave, dressed in jeans and a royal blue cashmere sweater.

"Who the hell are you?" House said.

"I'm Gary Barnes, the hospital's director of finance," he said. "Who the hell are you?"

The veins began to bulge in House's neck. Director of Finance. This tool must've been Cuddy's date to the New Jersey General gala. And here he was, acting like he somehow _belonged_ here. Acting like a friend of the fucking family.

"It's none of your damn business who I am," House snapped.

"He was just leaving," Wilson said, dragging House out of the room.

When they were in the hall, out of earshot, Wilson said: "What the hell were you thinking?"

"What the hell were _you_ thinking? You weren't going to call me and tell me that Cuddy was in a car accident?"

"I was, eventually. Didn't seem like the first order of business, considering the fact that you haven't spoken to her in two years."

House hesitated. Again, the urge to come clean was almost overwhelming. But he had made a promise to Cuddy.

"What do you know about the accident?" he said instead.

"It was pretty bad. Head trauma. Injuries to her leg and sternum. We won't know the severity until she gets out of surgery."

"Will you call me the minute she's out?"

"House, we have no idea how long the surgery is going to take. That could be hours from now."

"Will you call me the minute she's out of surgery?" House repeated.

Wilson looked at him. He had only seen his best friend this shaken up once before—right before he went to Mayfield.

"I'll call you," he said.

#####

The news was not great. Her leg was indeed broken and she had several cracked ribs. But most alarmingly there was some mild swelling in her brain, forcing the doctors to induce a coma.

"They'll reassess her condition tomorrow," Wilson told House over the phone. "They said they're pretty optimistic."

"Do they seem even slightly competent?" House said. (There were few doctors whose opinion he respected; Wilson was one of them.)

"They seem like good doctors. . . House get some sleep. I promise to keep you posted. And, whatever you do, _stay away_ from the hospital."

But of course, House ignored Wilson's warning. The next day, he snuck into Cuddy's private room, checked her chart—which, indeed, looked very encouraging—and pulled up a chair beside her bed.

He took her hand.

"You crazy girl. The lengths you'll go not to play another game of strip chess with me," he whispered, taking her hand.

She looked beautiful and still: A small bruise on her cheek and another one over her eye, bandages on her ribs and a cast on her leg. She looked like she was having a very restful sleep.

"Traumatic brain injury becomes you," he said, brushing a lock of hair off her forehead and smiling. Then pressed her hand to his lips. "I'm right here, Cuddy," he whispered. "They can't make me go anywhere."

####

Just as Wilson, Julia, and Arlene were heading to Cuddy's room, they were stopped in the hallway by a young man in a short-sleeved plaid shirt carrying a clipboard.

"I'm Chip McIntosh, I work in the hospital's public affairs department and I need to give you our brief hospitality survey," the man said.

Arlene curled her lip.

"We don't have any time for any survey. We're about to visit my daughter, who was in a terrible car crash."

"It'll be brief. It's standard procedure, just to ensure that all our patients and families are receiving the highest standard of care. Actually, it was your daughter who implemented the survey, Mrs. Cuddy."

Arlene cocked an eyebrow. She liked being well-known around the hospital—sort of like a mini celebrity.

"You say it's brief?" she said.

"10 minutes tops," Chip said, cheerfully.

"Okay," Arlene shrugged. She turned to Wilson and Julia: "I'll meet you both in her room."

"Actually," Chip said. "I need all three of you to take the survey."

Twenty minutes later, Wilson and Julia and Arlene were all in the waiting room—sitting in a studious row, their hands folded neatly in their laps—still being drilled with questions: "Was the coffee in the waiting room hot enough?" "Did the nurses smile enough?" "Were the bathrooms well-stocked and clean?"

"This is absolutely ridiculous," Arlene grumbled.

"I actually think it's nice," Wilson said, diplomatically.

Just then, Gary Barnes walked into the room.

"What's going on here?" he said.

"We're taking this insufferable hospitality survey," Arlene snapped. "This has to be the dumbest thing I've ever. . ."

"Our hospital doesn't have any hospitality survey," Gary said.

Chip looked up from his clip board nervously.

"See ya!" he said, darting out of the room, a blur as he bolted down the hall.

"_House_!" they all said in unison.

Arlene, Julia, and Wilson marched to Cuddy's room, where House was still sitting next to her, holding her hand, whispering in her ear.

When he saw them, he looked at his watch.

"Crap. I paid for half an hour," he said, under his breath.

"Unhand my daughter!" Arlene demanded.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Julia said. "Are you some sort of twisted sicko who fantasizes about unconscious women?"

"Just calm down everybody," House said, lowering his voice. "Let's just keep our cool and take this party into the hall."

"You do realize that Lisa hates you right?" Julia said, reluctantly following him. "I mean, I just want to make sure we're totally clear on this. You don't think she's going to wake up and think you're some sort of Prince Charming because you sat by her hospital bed. You're not actually _that_ delusional, are you?"

"She doesn't hate me," House said, trying to keep his voice steady.

"She sent you to jail. It was the happiest day of her life!" Julia said.

"Cuddy and I are back together!" House blurted out, surprising himself.

There was a brief, shocked silence as they all stared at him.

"Oh my God, you are such a liar!" Julia said. "First you hire Skippy—"

"Chip," House said.

"First you hire Chip to impersonate a hospital employee—"

"I'll have you know that cost me 500 bucks," House said.

"And now you come up with this ridiculous story that you and Lisa are back together."

"We are," House said.

"You're lying. My daughter wouldn't date you if you were the last man on earth," Arlene said.

"He's not lying," Wilson said, thoughtfully.

"Oh, thank _God_!" House said.

"He truly believes he's back together with her," Wilson continued. Then with concern, "How many Vicodin have you taken?"

"Oh for fuck's sake," House said. "I'm not on Vicodin! I weaned myself off Vicodin four months ago. You know why? Because I've been having regular sex with _her daughter_!"

"Get out!" Arlene screamed, close to a complete meltdown. "Get out before I call security!"

"Calm down, you crazy old witch. I'm leaving," House said. "But I'm not lying. Cuddy and I are in love. And I will be back, whether you like it or not."

"We'll see about that!" Arlene shouted after him.

He limped away quickly, with Wilson hastily following.

"House, slow down," Wilson said.

House stopped, gave a surprised little shrug. "That was a first," he said, almost to himself.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked.

"I'm fine. Well, other than my girlfriend being in a medically induced coma—which, little known fact, was actually the original title to that Morrissey song."

"She's not your girlfriend."

"Wilson, she is. Do I seem delusional to you?"

"You seem very, very upset."

"I am upset! I'm upset that Cuddy is in a coma. And I'm upset that no one is letting me be with her! I don't have the best track record of being there for her when she's unwell. I'd like to start fixing that record—_right now_."

Wilson peered at him.

"If you and Cuddy are back together, why didn't you tell me?"

House gripped his cane a little tighter.

"She wanted to keep it a secret."

"That's pretty convenient, huh?"

"And completely credible. If you were dating the guy who rammed his car into your house, would _you_ broadcast it to the world?"

"I just can't believe Cuddy would date you again."

"It's been a slow process. First there was an extensive exchange of letters . . .and gifts . . .and, uh, bodily fluids."

"Gross."

House shrugged.

"But she finally admitted that she loves me."

"_Maybe_ I believe you," Wilson said, squinting at him.

"_Maybe_?"

"I don't know House. Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice…"

"Than you're an idiot! I'm not lying."

"Okay, maybe you're not. But your presence is very stressful to everyone involved. So do yourself and Cuddy a favor and stay away."

"Cuddy needs me."

"She's unconscious House. Don't tell me you suddenly believe in the healing power of holding hands with an unconscious person."

Wilson had a point. This was the sort of thing House mocked back at PPTH; that and friends encouraging patients to "be strong"—like they were prize fighters or something.

"She needs me," he repeated.

"House, I'll call you if there's any change in her condition. But mark my words: stay away."

#####

Later that day, Cuddy's swelling was so reduced, the doctors were able to ease her out of the coma.

She woke up briefly, blinked a few times, managed to say her name, the year, the president, before falling back to sleep.

"She's out of the woods," Wilson told House on the phone. "Resting comfortably, as they say."

"Good, I'll be there in 10 minutes," House said, grabbing his jacket.

"House, no!" Wilson protested. But it was too late; he had already hung up.

In the hotel lobby, House ran right smack into a courier.

"Gregory House?" the kid said.

"Yeah, get outta my way kid. I'm busy."

"I'm here on behalf of the State of Jersey to serve you with this temporary restraining order. You are not to go with 20 yards of Lisa Cuddy or it will be considered a violation of your parole and you will be immediately arrested."

_To be continued…_


	4. Chapter 4

"What?" House barked into the phone.

"House, where have you been?" Wilson said. "Why haven't you been answering your phone? I called six times!"

"Oh, so _that's_ what that annoying vibrating was. I thought my leg had a new symptom."

"Are you…_drunk_?"

"It is possible that I may have partaken in a scotch…or four."

"I don't get it. Why aren't you at the hospital? I figured by now you'd have set off a fire alarm or released a stinkbomb—anything to get back in Cuddy's room."

"Funny thing that," House said. "I can't go to Cuddy's room."

"What? Last time we spoke you had a full head of steam. I believe your exact words were, 'I'll be there in 10 minutes.' So what happened?"

"The very official and scary looking letter in my pocket from the State of New Jersey saying that I can't go within 20 yards of Lisa Cuddy is what happened."

"Letter? . . . A restraining order? Who would. . .?" Then he thought about it. "Oh God, she wouldn't."

"She would and she did."

"I had no idea Julia was so devious."

House snorted.

"She's not. Julia may hate my guts but she doesn't have nearly the nefarious imagination for something like this. This restraining order has Arlene Cuddy written all over it."

"Is that even legal? I mean, Cuddy's unconscious."

"It's called power of attorney. It transfers to the next of kin when someone is incapacitated."

"So what would actually happen if you came to see her?"

"Three to five years in jail," House said, taking a bitter swig of his drink. "You see, I'm a known offender. An ex con. Score one, Arlene."

"House, I'm so sorry. That…sucks. No wonder you're drunk."

"Bottoms up," House said, ironically. Then he sighed. "So how is she?"

"The doctors says all vitals are trending in the right direction. I was actually about to go visit."

"Tell her that I. . .Tell her . . . Oh, forget it. It's useless."

"What's useless?"

"I had a chance to redeem myself by being there for her and instead I'm sitting here in a fucking hotel bar."

"That's hardly your fault. You can't help if Cuddy's mother is a psychopath."

"I failed her. Again. It's what I do. Good bye, Wilson."

And he hung up.

#####

Cuddy's eyes fluttered open.

She looked around the room.

Blurred figures of two women slowly came into focus.

"Mom?" she said. "Julia?"

"Honey, we're right here," Arlene said, going to her.

"There was an accident," Cuddy said, slowly piecing it together: the loud noises, the debris, the far-away-sounding voice of someone screaming for help.

"Yes sweetie. A bad one. But you're going to be okay."

"Hi sis," Julia said, also getting up, squeezing Cuddy's hand. "You gave us a scare there."

"Where's Rachel?" Cuddy said, feeling disoriented and panicky.

"She's fine, Lis. She's with the nanny and my kids back in Princeton. We'll bring her by tomorrow."

Cuddy rubbed her eyes.

"What day is today?" she said.

"It's Monday. You were out for two and a half days."

"And House?" Cuddy said.

Arlene frowned, glanced at Julia.

"He's not here honey. He can't hurt you ever again."

"No. . .I…I was driving to see him." She scrunched up her face, trying to remember. "We were supposed to spend the weekend together. He must be so worried. Does he know I'm here?"

It wasn't that Cuddy was planning on telling Arlene and Julia this way. She was still in a sort of elemental state, only able to construct basic thoughts: The safety of her child. Concern for her lover.

"House knows about the accident," Arlene said. "He's been informed."

"Then where is he?"

"Not here, obviously," Arlene said, glancing at Julia again.

"Can someone tell him I'm awake and I want to see him?"

"I have no way of contacting him," Arlene said. "He …hasn't been by to see you."

Julia shot her mother a surprised look, but said nothing.

"He hasn't?" Cuddy said.

"No. Not once."

Cuddy closed her eyes, upset and confused.

"But he loves me," she said. "I don't get it."

"Bailing when things get tough is his specialty, if I recall," Arlene said.

Cuddy felt like she was about to cry.

"I just. . .I thought things were different this time."

"You should stop wasting your time on that man. He will always disappoint you."

Cuddy tried to swallow, but her mouth was dry.

"I'm thirsty," she said finally.

"Here sweetie," Arlene said, taking the glass of water on the tray next to the bed and bringing it to Cuddy's lips. "Try to sit up a little and take a sip."

######

"You want to talk about it?" the bartender said to House, pouring him his fifth scotch.

"Do I look like I want to talk about it?" House grumbled.

"Sorry, man. You just seem a little depressed."

"Thank you, Sigmund."

"Anyway, I thought you might need this to absorb some of that scotch." He slid a burger and fries in House's direction. "On the house."

House looked at him. "Thanks," he said, taking a glum bite of the sandwich. Then he sighed.

"Have you ever come close to getting everything you wanted and then the rug was pulled out from under you?" he said. "And suddenly you realize, Of course it didn't work out. Because you're meant to miserable. It's who you are."

The bartender gave a half smile.

"Was that a rhetorical question?"

House laughed a bit, despite himself.

"I know," he said, running his hand through his hair. "I'm pathetic."

"I've seen worse," the bartender said. "But not much."

"The night is young," House said.

"In my experience, good things happen to good people."

House looked at him.

"Either you're lying, you've had no experience, or you're really _really _dumb."

Then he added, charitably. "Let's just assume you've had no experience. Besides, who said I'm a good person?"

"I have an instinct about that sort of thing," the bartender said.

####

"Hey," Wilson said, pulling a chair up beside Cuddy's bed. Arlene and Julia had gone down to the cafeteria to get something to eat so the two of them were alone. "You look good. How are you feeling?"

"Okay," Cuddy said. "My head hurts."

"Yeah. Concussions tend to have that effect. Any blurred vision? Mental fuzziness?"

"So far, so good," Cuddy said.

"Good. But with that broken leg, you'll be walking like House for the next few months."

At the invocation of his name a heavy silence fell over the room.

"So I guess you found out about us?" Cuddy said.

"Yeah, he told me. But only _after_ the accident. As ever, he was the soul of discretion."

"I just don't get it," Cuddy said, shaking her head.

"Get what?"

"Why he wouldn't come see me."

Wilson squinted at her.

"_What_?"

"I mean, unless he thought I wouldn't want him here…but still. After my cancer scare, I assumed he would—"

"Cuddy, House was here every day," Wilson said. "He even hired some guy to distract your mother so he could spend more time with you."

"He did?"

"Of course. He was sick with worry about you."

"I knew it," Cuddy said, almost to herself. "My mother is such a liar. I knew he wouldn't stay away again."

Then she frowned.

"So where is he now?"

"Possibly still bellied up to the bar at the Hoboken Hilton. He can't come see you anymore. Your mother put out a restraining order."

"She _what_?" Cuddy said, bolting up so quickly in bed, she clutched her ribs in pain. She lay back down. "What?" she repeated.

"Don't ask me. Ask your mother. She thought he was stalking you or something. House told her you guys were back together and she didn't believe him. To be honest, it took a while to convince me too. It's not like he hasn't hallucinated a relationship with you before."

Cuddy put her hand to her face.

"Oh my God, poor House."

"Yeah, he's pretty broken up about it. Hence the heavy drinking."

"This is my fault," Cuddy said, shaking her head. "I kept him tucked away, like some sort of shameful secret. And he's not a secret. He's the man I love."

"I think House really needs to hear that," Wilson said.

"I need you to do a few things for me, Wilson: Get me a lawyer. A good one. A shark. I'm going to make that restraining order go away. And tell my mother to get her wrinkly ass in here. She has some explaining to do."

#####

A day later, thanks to Wilson's good lawyer, the restraining order was revoked and House was able to come visit Cuddy.

When he went to her room, Arlene and Julia were both there.

He stopped in the doorway, looked down at his feet.

"I guess I'll, uh, come back later," he said.

"No!" Cuddy said. "You stay. _They're_ leaving."

Then she turned to her mother. "But before they go, isn't there something you want to say to House?"

"I'm sorry about the …misunderstanding," Arlene mumbled, barely audibly.

"Misunderstanding. That's one way of putting it," House said.

"_Mom_," Cuddy said.

"Okay! I'm sorry I put out a restraining order on you and lied to my daughter about it! Are you satisfied? I don't know what else I'm supposed to say…"

"No, that was perfect. Very moving," House said. "I'm sure they'll put it on a Hallmark card one day."

Cuddy was still glaring at Arlene, so she continued:

"I admit, the restraining order might have been a _touch _extreme. I was just trying to protect my daughter."

House's face grew serious.

"I know you were," he said. "I don't blame you." And he and Arlene quietly nodded at each other.

"Mom, I know it's hard to understand," Cuddy said. "And I know that I made a mess of things by lying to you. But you have to accept that House is back in my life." She turned to her sister. "Both of you do. Because I love him—and he's not going anywhere."

House gave a tiny, proud smile.

"It's true," House said. "I'm not."

Julia and Arlene both rolled their eyes.

"Now leave, so I can spend some time along with my man!"

After they were gone, House sat down beside Cuddy, took her hand.

"If the plan was to scare the shit out me," he said. "Mission accomplished."

"I scared myself," she said. "And then when I woke up and you weren't here. . ."

"You didn't really believe that I could stay away, did you?"

"I didn't want to believe it," Cuddy said.

"Look at me," he said, lifting her chin. "I will never let you down again. Ever. Do you understand that?"

"I think I finally do," she said nodding.

"And along those lines," he said, with a tiny smile. "I'm afraid I'm not going to be able to let you get back behind the wheel of a car again. It's unfortunate, but it's the way it has to be."

She chuckled. "Believe me, I'm in no rush," she said. "And besides, with my bad leg, I have no choice in the matter."

"I love the idea that I'm suddenly the able-bodied one in this relationship."

"Gimpy and Gimpier: A Love Story," Cuddy said.

He laughed. "So, besides the leg . . .and the head…and the ribs…and the fact that Arlene Cuddy is your mother…how do you feel?" he said.

"Happier now," she said, looking at him.

He leaned down and kissed her gently on the lips.

"Me too," he said.

"I missed you," she said.

"I missed you too."

"I'm sorry about all of this. It was all my fault."

"Shhh," he said. "That's crazy talk. You can't help it if your mother is like Chuck Norris in sensible shoes."

"But if I hadn't lied about us…"

"Forget it. We're out of the closet—well, hotel room—for good now," he said. "That's what counts."

"You're right, it does." Then she gave a little ironic smile. "I got all your voicemail messages, by the way."

"Oh . . . _those_."

"I'm pretty sure you called me a bitch," she teased.

"I was …agitated."

"It's okay," she said. "But I'm _so_ saving those messages to use against you in the future."

"You're evil."

"And you love it."

"Yes," he said, adoringly. "I do."

####

House left the room to let her get some sleep and bumped right smack into Arlene and Julia.

"Hey, it's my arch nemesis_es_," he said, furrowing his brow like he wasn't sure how to pronounce the word. "Nemesi?"

"Hello House," Julia said. "How's she doing?"

"Better now that I'm here," House said.

"Regrettably, that seems to be true," Arlene said. "I may not like you, House. I may not approve of you. I may think you're a poor excuse for a man and an even worse excuse for a life partner, but my daughter seems to love you. So I officially accept your presence in her life, God help me."

"Thank you Arlene. That'll make a wonderful toast at our wedding."

"Don't push it, House."

EPILOGUE

Ten months later, House and Cuddy entered the Hoboken Hilton for the first time since the accident.

"Welcome back Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner!" the concierge said. "It's been too long."

"Actually, it's Dr. and Mrs. House now," House said. "Well, Dr. and Dr.— but that sounds more like a medical practice than the wedded bliss it is."

"Congratulations!" the concierge said. "We find around here that these sorts of, um, hotel-based relationships don't usually have such happy endings."

"We're freaks like that," House said.

"It's part of our charm," Cuddy agreed.

"Well, in honor of your recent nuptials, I'm going to upgrade you to the Honeymoon Suite."

"No!" House and Cuddy said, in unison.

"We want the same room we always had. 1207," Cuddy explained.

"Where it all began," House said, wrapping his arm around her.

"Very good, " the concierge said, typing something into his computer. "I assume a complimentary bottle of champagne is not against the rules?"

"You assume correctly, good sir," House said.

"And is there still a DVD player in the room?" Cuddy said. She smiled sneakily, "I brought The Way We Were."

"Oh, there will be no movie watching of any kind," House said, pulling her closer and kissing the top of her head. "We'll be _way _too busy!"

She gave a playful scream and squirmed out from under him.

"I also brought Beaches!" she said, darting to the elevator. "And Hope Floats!"

"Welcome to married life," the concierge said, with a laugh.

"Isn't it the best?" House said.

THE END


End file.
